


Blame it on the Creme Brulee

by time_converges



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Joanlock - Freeform, Mild Sexual Content, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 09:25:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3686970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/time_converges/pseuds/time_converges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan's imagination runs away with her.  Joanlock. Missing scene from "The View from Olympus" so spoilers for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame it on the Creme Brulee

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a post at tumblr, and also posted there.

Joan settled herself on the hotel bed – crème brulee in one hand, tv remote in the other. She sighed in utter bliss as she took the first mouthful. Sherlock definitely knew how to choose the perfect hotel – plenty of pillows, and utterly decadent crème brulee on the room service menu. She flipped through the channels until she found a decent movie to watch, and leaned back against the pillows to enjoy her dessert.

She found it difficult to focus on the movie, however – her thoughts kept wandering back to the brownstone, and what Sherlock and Agatha might be doing at that very moment. She shook her head, trying to clear those thoughts. She certainly didn’t want to imagine them on the sex blanket. She grinned to herself – she knew he hated that she called it that, but it really was the only signal she had yet discovered that he had planned to invite a guest over. Also she liked seeing him a bit off-balance when she teased him.

She certainly didn’t want to imagine why he had felt it necessary to clear off the fireplace mantel. Images of what might require those precautions made her cheeks warm.

But that night, when she dreamed, she dreamed it was she who was moving over him on the fuzzy blanket, his muscles warm and solid under her hands. And she dreamed it was she, not Agatha, clutching the mantel for support as she gasped in pleasure, with Sherlock’s voice low and warm and encouraging in her ear.

She awoke flustered and aroused, and blamed the crème brulee.

The next night, she ordered two servings.


End file.
